


heaven cannot wait forever

by caligulasavior9



Category: A Courtesan of Rome (Visual Novel)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Internal Conflict, Jealousy, Mind Games, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caligulasavior9/pseuds/caligulasavior9
Summary: Sometimes, the trouble with the chase is it’s so easy to crash.
Relationships: Marc Antony/Main Character (A Courtesan of Rome)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know I said I was going to write a monstrous one-shot for this, but after reconsidering the word counts and all, I decided to divide them into 3 or maybe 4 separate chapters. Anyway, here’s part 1. 
> 
> _title derived from fiona apple's briliant song, the first taste_

_“Soulmates aren't the ones who make you happiest, no. They're instead the ones who make you feel the most. Burning edges and scars and stars. Old pangs, captivation and beauty. Strain and shadows and worry and yearning. Sweetness and madness and dreamlike surrender. They hurl you into the abyss. They taste like hope.”_

_\- Victoria Erickson_

_  
I can hurt you  
_ _You can hurt me  
_ _But you better be sure before you leave me for another one_

_\- 2 Wicky - Hooverphonic_

* * *

**i**

  
A woman.

A man.

And an arrow.

Somewhere, someone that was not either of them-- an archer, perhaps, shot it into the blue, to pass the time and involuntarily it punched straight into their hearts.

But before it happens, under a canopy of burnished gold, the vehement roars of the crowd, fighters circling each other with their Gladius, there was a document in his sword-calloused hand, a rapid rustling of parchments and strings of Roman curses that tumbled from his lips.

"How did you get this?" The current most powerful man in Rome asked, his sharp eyes perusing the content, flummoxed.

Next to him, was a woman-- _the_ woman that had conquered every patrician's hearts and coin purses at her disposal, sitting cross-legged that the high slit at the side of her dress showed off her long, sun-kissed legs. Absolutely enticing, dangerously beckoning. It was a wonder why every man's attention hadn't turned to her at this point.

The smile that stretched across her lips was full-blown and mischievous, the kind when one had too many devious plans slithering in her head. And she did. Perhaps they weren't wrong, perhaps women and serpents _are_ sisters.

"A woman never reveals her secret, Antony. It's bad for business," she purred, her Latin still heavily accented even after all these years. As if forbidding herself from forgetting her roots, as if she didn't want them to forget that it was a Gaulish barbarian woman who could drive them all mad with desire like this.

"How do I know you didn't forge this yourself, then?"

The courtesan hiked up a brow. "So what if I did?" 

Antony craned his head at her, and gods above, he _was_ handsome- dark, intense eyes, a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and commanding lips- but looks were superficial, deceiving. He might look like a Roman god, but for all she knew he could be plotting against her at this exact moment. Just as she was at him. 

"You see those men over there?" Antony pointed to the Praetorian guards standing ram-rod straight by the box's entrance. "Hypothetically, if you did, I could have them send you down to the cells for slander and lock you there until the scholae turns to dust. The Senate would demand it _,_ Caesar as well. But _only_ if you forged these papers."

A slow smile crawled up her face, almost tigerish, and she leaned in until their cheeks nearly brushed, fingers running along his arm.

"And if I didn't?" She whispered in his ear, her lips grazing his earlobe, just barely, but the effect was enough to shoot bolts down her spine. 

When she pulled back, there was also a smile on his face, matching hers. She knew that he knew the papers were as authentic as the tension between them, but this was only a game they played; a dance of words, of wits, of desire, of push and pull, who would break, who would bend first.

Antony reached his hand out to her face, brushing a fallen strand of hair behind her ear.

"If you didn't, Ophelia dear, I'd say you're only doing this to please me." His thumb and forefinger gripped her chin, the former rubbed over her lower lip and every last bit of her self-control nearly cracked. "We both know this isn't the outcome you had in mind if you ever got Aquila alone."

His touch burned, burned, burned all the way to her soul, but Ophelia held his gaze.

"Ah, yes, sometimes I forgot the world revolves around you, Antony," she murmured, the honorific sarcastic, which made him chuckle. "And if there's anything I learned, there are many ways to kill a man."

"Lena taught you that?"

"I'm my own teacher."

Antony hummed appreciatively. "Rome would make a marvelous politician out of you yet, then."

"Rome, Antony..." Ophelia leaned forward in her seat once more. "Or you?"

Without missing a beat, Antony mirrored her movements. His gaze never left her and his dark eyes seared through her with an intensity as if she was a throne to claim, land to conquer. Her mouth went dry at the implication.

Atrial fibrillation, another roar, both from the crowd and the fighters. But there was a war inside her head too. 

"Ophelia…" His eyes were on her lips now. "Rome _is_ me."

* * *

**ii**

  
The next time she saw him, Aquila was already halfway trudging to Germania with his tail between his legs, stripped of his rank and wealth, but the game, as always, went on.

Today, the sun soared higher than a patrician's ego. The arena was jam-packed, every seat filled, some plebeians were even shoehorned into cramped spaces. A promise that heads would roll today and the crowd _demanded_ blood.

His private box seemed far away from the one she was in, yet she could still see him, sitting in his usual seat, a throne befitting a king, with Xanthe sitting, rather too comfortably, that was, on his lap. Doing that sexy-pout-cackle thing at him that Ophelia wished to shatter, roughly. 

But Ophelia was a woman of patience and grace, despite her barbaric upbringing. So, she held back. Think of it as an exercise in self-patience, though she had had years of practice before her already and simply muted out his world from her. It was easier this way, she thought. Ignorance could be blissful.

Approximately half an hour later, Cassius turned his head and chuckled freely with his forehead pressed against her temple, his profile hidden behind her curtains of hair. His breath decidedly warm against her skin, but that was it.

"Glycia wears his toga backwards," he later explained at her confused stare.

And Ophelia was so stunned, because of the absurdity of it and how it sounded like something Antony would do and say, but the admission choked a laugh out of her anyway, indelicate and loud.

Across the box, Antony's eyes met hers.

She wondered if this was what his enemies saw before he killed them.

* * *

**iii**

  
He'd seen her before she saw him.

Under the ancient sun, Antony looked like a tamer, curated version of himself; toga-clad with a red shawl draped over one broad shoulder, laurels on his head and a 10-day stubble. 

When he smiled at her, it took a few moments for Ophelia to remember that that wide, unguarded smile came from one of Caesar's most trusted counsel who happened to be a world-class philander with a penchant for pretty and expensive things and giving a knife's edge stare at her patrons.

It made her feel like hurling herself out of the window.

Then several senators piled out from the _curia_ behind him, deep in whatever political-related discussion they were having before making their way to greet Antony once they saw him. 

Ophelia thought she saw Antony trying to get away from their company to get to her, but she quickly slipped into the crowd before he got the chance.

* * *

**iv** **  
  
**

Contrary to popular beliefs, it wasn't actually her appearance or the way she'd openly defied him during their first meeting that had him intrigued. 

It was her accent.

One evening, in a rather ostentatious party held by a tax farmer- what's-his-name- Antony sidled up to her. In his hand, a red, ripe apple that matched the color of her lips. 

At last, after a week of avoiding him like a bee sting, her luck, unfortunately, ran out. 

"How do you say this in your mother tongue?” Antony asked, as if genuinely curious, holding the fruit up to his face. 

It was the first time they spoke to each other after the game and honestly, it still baffled her in every possible way because she thought after whatever absurd accusations Xanthe had thrown at her, followed by his sudden icy, distant demeanor and demanded to bring Xanthe to the game instead, he wouldn't have wanted to talk to her again.

Yet there he had been, when she presented Aquila's crimes to him, his eyes, her potential undoing, and here he was again.

"Apple," she replied in the inquired language and it felt both nostalgic and tragic in her tongue. 

Antony followed her example, a poor imitation to her accent-- even borderline gibberish, but she smiled nonetheless. 

"How about those?" He tilted his head at a bunch of grapes atop the table beside her. 

Instinctively, Ophelia grabbed the stem and held it up to her lips, all the while never tearing his gaze off of her. She really shouldn't be doing this, she knew, but fuck him.

Not literally, though.

 _Yet_.

"Grapes," she said again as she plucked a succulent, taut bauble of grape into her mouth. Apple-kissed lips wrapped around chaotic purple, tongue darted out just enough to tease him and suddenly, breathing felt like an impossible task and her body felt like it'd been kissed by fire and her heart thrummed wildly in her ears and-

He groaned. 

The sound stopped her. Antony licked his lip. She shivered at the sight. She dug her nails into her palm, so hard there would be moon-shaped dents in the morning. He had the same carnal look on his face when he'd gone down on her, but he had also made it clear he picked Xanthe over her, so Ophelia decided to hold back. Refusing to break, to even bend. 

Her pride wouldn't let her.

Then Xanthe popped up around the corner and Ophelia flew back to Cassius' side.

* * *

**v**  
  
At this point, Rome was starting to feel more like an unexpected sojourn instead of a gilded cage.

But never home. 

Home was reserved only for the crisp air, the damp earth, hyacinths in the winter, the sound of wildflowers and autumn leaves crunched beneath her bare feet, sleeping under the canopy of resplendent evergreens, vast and comforting and safe. And free. 

Home was where she wouldn't have to weep for the bygone days, where her parents would have sit by the fire with them and recounted stories from their youths or Cingerix's punch-drunk, almost dreamy-like smile every time he'd come home from Talius' hut, oblivious to his sister's snickers until she rubbed it on his face.

Rome would never be enough. No matter how she'd learned to memorize its alleyways and the cacophony of the marketplace before Saturnalia; the unforgiving sun and virescent buildings; the basilica during the ungodly hour of the night and the way he glued his tongue to the southern heat of her bod- 

_Wait, what?_

"You seem out of sorts, my child." This was Locusta, who was mixing a concoction of cormorant blood and mandrake with a motherly look of concern. "What's on your mind?"

"Home," answered Ophelia, but all that she could think of was the shape of Antony's lips against her thigh.

* * *

**vi**

_EXT. MARKETPLACE - DAY  
  
_

"I thought I'd find you here."

"Oh?" Asked Ophelia, noncommittal. Her attention still taped to the endless wares before her, if anything to distract herself. "I didn't know you were looking for me."

"I didn't. But somehow I'd always know where to find you," replied Antony, leaning against the wall next to her. Good Gods, he wasn't going to make this easy for her, was he? 

"I haven't seen you in a while. Did you miss me?" He said again when she didn't say anything.

Despite herself, there was a curl of smile that threatened the edges of her mouth. 

"Like the Senate misses Caesar, yes," she teased, not wanting to inflate his ego further.

He laughed, of course, all man and genuine. Because if there was anyone who could tolerate her sarcasm and smarting words, as much as an oddity it sounded, it'd be him.

"Ophelia, Ophelia, with that wicked tongue of yours, maybe you should leave your work as a courtesan and become a jester instead."

"Tempting. But I'd have to pass." She looked at him, then, her palm pressed against his chest and donned her best come-hither look. "I wouldn't have a valid excuse to see you if I were one," purred Ophelia. Another log added to the fire.

The grin he wore could match the curve of a crescent moon. "So you _do_ miss me." 

Ophelia rolled her eyes, lips quirking. "Gods, Antony, your arrogance really _is_ inspiring." 

"I know." And wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her body against his, not giving a rat's ass to onlookers around them. "Tell me you miss me, Ophelia. Let me hear it."

Before she could come up with another barrage of denials, Antony swept her hair aside and that was when he saw it, half-concealed by the neckline of her dress; an eye-catching green Onyx pear-shaped stone pendant, framed in a polished, gold bezel hanging just above her tribe's mark.

The smile on his face instantly dissipated, hers bloomed.

His hand closed around the pendant. "Where did you get this?" 

"It's a gift from Cassius." She watched for his reaction, but his face had reverted to that stony expression he liked to wear, giving nothing away. 

"Beautiful, isn't it? I've always adored gemstones," she pressed on, knowing full well the ramifications that could follow.

Antony dropped his arm from her and stepped back.

"I could give you thousands of those," he said, deadpanned. But that was not the reaction she'd wanted from him.

"I wouldn't need that much."

"It's not a matter of necessity."

Anger gripped at her heart like a vice, unexpected and true. "Don't be absurd, Antony. It's just a necklace," she pointed out, voice hard.

Antony's jaw clenched in a tight line. _There we go._ "It's a statement," he bit back. "Why else would he give you that in the first place?"

"A statement of _what_? It's a gift! A token of his appreciation for my company. You don't have to go and weaponize it, for Tsirona's sake!" The urge to scream at his face had never been this strong. "And why should it even concern you, anyway? I'm not even your-"

Ophelia clamped her mouth shut, blinked slowly, realising her almost slip of the tongue. His eyebrow migrated to his hairline. He'd noticed that. Of course he would, and she struggled not to wince under his prompting stare.

_Shit, shit, shit._

"You're not even my _what_?" His voice might hold a certain edge to it, but the rest of his face was deadly cool.

Ophelia took a shaky breath and turned her attention back to the wares, refusing to look at him. She just couldn't, though the weight of his stare still burned holes on her temple.

"Will you be coming to Senator Linus' name day feast the day after the morrow?" She muttered after a beat, ignoring his question like a plague. "I will be performing my latest poetry there."

"Will he be there?" And they both knew Antony wasn't talking about the senator.

A beat. Then: "No." 

"Then I'll reconsider it."

"Of course." And the courtesan was back to her practiced, stoic mask Lena had drilled her from day one. Chin tipped forward.

"Oh, and do tell Xanthe to wear something pretty for the occasion while you're at it." She nodded curtly, turning distant. "Good day, Antony."

And then she was gone.

Two could play that game, she thought.

* * *

**vii**  
  
The day the feast arrived, Ophelia tucked the necklace away in her jewelry box and donned a different one.

He didn't come.

* * *

**viii**

"He's a fool." 

Ophelia looked up from the scroll she was reading, confusion pulled her brows together into a frown. 

"Pardon?"

"Antony," Cassius said his name the same way the whole Rome said 'plebeians' or 'slaves', wiping the sweat trickling down his neck. Summer had long gone, but the weather still felt like a bonfire to this day. 

"Anyone who chooses another woman over you is a fool in my book," he preached it like it was a well-thought-out conviction, determined and near-evangelical. "That should be added to the long list of crimes he's committed, I'd say."

_And I'd choose him over you. What does it make me, then?_

But she didn't tell him that.

* * *

**ix**  
  
It took her a few days, a cupful of wine, an impromptu excursion around the city and another cup for Ophelia to realize that perhaps getting on Antony's bad side might do more harm than good for both her personal life and her career.

Like it or not, he was the most powerful man in Rome. No matter what conflicting feelings she had for him, earning his favour was crucial and Ophelia should have known better than letting her personal feelings cloud her judgement.

Long story short, she decided to fix the mess she'd made. If anything, Antony was dangerous as he was capricious.

 _But was he?_ People kept telling her that, but just because he never showed her that side of him, that didn't mean she intended to find out.

She laid out a parchment, an ink and quill on the desk table. Her hand on the quill, yet her head felt like it could run aground somewhere in the Aegean sea. She couldn't even conjure a single word, merely staring at the blank space for what it felt like hours.

Ophelia had half a mind to give up until she absent-mindedly wrote the first thing that came to mind.

_Cubitum eamus?_

She sat back and blinked- once, twice, thrice. Letting the words slithered into her head and lingered there, and it frightened her to the core just how close to the truth of it. 

Ophelia pressed her hands over her eyes until she saw stars and groaned. 

Fuck, she had really lost it, hadn't she?

With a tired sigh, she folded the parchment and set it aside. Snatched a new one from the drawer, scolded herself for the waste of resources and wetted the quill once more to write:

A _ntony,_

_I feel like I was being rude to you the other day. I don't know what came over me and I can't believe it took me this long to realize that, so for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I really am._

_I know you are no longer my patron now, but I'd prefer if we could go back to being amicable as we had been._

_\- Ophelia_

She thoroughly perused the content one last time. Satisfied, she folded the letter and gave a mark for the one she was going to send. Now, her eyelids were heavy and sleep beckoned her.

When morning came, Ophelia grabbed the letter from her desk and headed outside. She spotted a messenger boy with a pera bag slung over his shoulder who'd happened to be passing by the scholae. 

Ophelia called him over, knelt to his level and handed him over the letter.

"I need this letter delivered to Marc Antony," she instructed. Then added, " _Only_ for his eyes, do you hear me?" 

The boy nodded obediently and Ophelia gave extra _denarii_ to him before he ran off. 

Ophelia might still hate Antony; might still want to straddle him on the bed and kiss him until asphyxiation killed him; might still want him to fuck her brains out, to tear him apart and put him back together. The thing about him was that he made her question her every move, and she hated it.

She hated him so much she feared she had cycled around to be infatuated with him.

* * *

Somewhere in Pompeii's villa, over the hundreds of letters piling before him, Antony unfolded one that had been sitting on his desk table for days and read it.

He spat his drink all over the table.

* * *

**x**  
  
That same week, came another feast. Another routine in the agony, though at least it wasn't held by a corrupted tax farmer this time and some of the girls would be coming along with her.

A flower crown and a broken white V-neck dress with dropped shoulders specially commissioned for the occasion by Lena were waiting for Ophelia in her chamber. In the mirror, her hair looked like a carnival of baby's-breaths, peonies and wild roses; Cassius' necklace still hung around her neck and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she should take it off again.

She didn't.

Later at the party, she saw Sabina amongst the crowd and Ophelia felt like she could cry. Given the company she was in; a circle jerk of drunk, greasy-haired, greasy-palmed, toga-clad patricians, her presence felt like a breath of fresh air.

"Ophelia, you look like you have the whole Hanging Gardens in your hair!" Sabina said in that wide-eyed, enthusiastic, happy-go-lucky self which she'd often displayed ever since Aquila's exile.

Then they moved over to the garden court, where they spent most of the time catching up to what had been happening in their lives. Sabina told her all about the alterations she'd made to the villa, how she'd thrown out and burnt all Aquila's stuff to dust.

"It was really cathartic," Sabina confessed freely, moonbeams dancing in her air. "and liberating and like an abundance of happiness right atop of my chest. Gods, I don't think I can encapsulate what I feel, Ophelia."

Ophelia's smile was kind and wide. "I'm glad, Sabina. After what you've been through, this is exactly what you deserve."

"Yet all of this wouldn't have happened if it weren't for you." Sabina took her dainty hands in hers, squeezing them. "Ophelia, if you hadn't found the evidence of his crimes, if you hadn't gone to Antony... I don't even want to entertain that idea."

"Then don't, and let us rather thank the Gods that we'll never have to know."

"You're right." She sighed, the softest whisper of her breath against the night wind. "Can I ask you something?"

Ophelia nodded, seemingly unbothered. She heard Sabina took a deep breath.

"Why didn't you kill him?" 

"Presenting his crimes to Antony was far more beneficial for me than a dagger to the throat could ever achieve," she admitted point-blank. "Killing him would have satisfied me, yes, but this is Rome, I need to think ten steps ahead if I want to survive. I need to think beyond my own needs."

"So you turned to Antony?"

Ophelia shrugged. "Antony has had his suspicions on him for a while, I was just confirming it for him."

A playful smirk tugged at her lips. "It sounded like you care about his needs."

Ophelia rolled her eyes. "Oh, do shut up," she said, but not without a great deal of kindness.

And Sabina chuckled at that, good-natured, her dark, brown eyes sparkled like autumn leaves. 

Ophelia felt her studying her from her peripheral vision. Then Sabina picked an ox-eye daisy from the ground, took hold of one of the tiny petals and plucked it off. Then another. Distracted, as if thinking carefully of the words she was going to say to her.

It was a long moment before she managed to utter the question out.

"Is it true?"

"What is?" 

"You and him…?" She trailed off and Ophelia felt like burying her head in the ground.

"It's complicated." Gods, even thinking about the nature of their relationship made her head pirouette.

"Do you love him?"

And Ophelia froze in her place. The question was so unexpected that she could only stare and stare and stare at the flower in the other woman's hands until the petals became a mere jumble in her vision.

"No," she answered and it was the truth. 

Sabina exhaled, somewhat relieved, as if she'd just heard that on the way to Germania, Aquila had tripped over and snapped his neck and died.

"Good. He doesn't deserve you."

Ophelia scoffed. "I'm not even his, Sabina."

"I know. But you wish you were."

Twice. _Twice_ that Sabina had rendered Ophelia speechless tonight. Seriously, who was this woman and what had she done to the old Sabina?

"Listen, Ophelia, I know it is not my place to tell you how to live your life or anything, but you're my best friend and I care about you. Just promise me to be careful should you decide to pursue his affection." Sabina looked at her dead in the eyes, giving no room for arguments. "Promise me."

Ophelia nodded slowly, resolutely. 

"I will. I promise."

When they headed back inside, somehow the room felt smaller and the flower had ended up in Ophelia's hands. 

She looked down and started pulling the petals off, one by one.

* * *

_TWO HOURS LATER_

He saw her before he saw anything else in the room. 

Typical of Antony to arrive late, be it to anyone’s party or his own. If he was any other man, say a patrician currently running for the senate, people would probably deem it as rudeness or a scatter-brained behaviour which surely was frowned upon, but he was _Marc Antony_ , so they all turned the other cheek. 

All eyes immediately went to him as he waltzed inside; wine forgotten, chatters resigned to quiet murmurations. He _had_ that effect on people, but that’s inessential. What troubled Ophelia the most was the whole time, Antony still had his eyes on her. 

Then his face split into that rough-edged, knowing set of a smile. Looking as if he knew the deepest, darkest secret of her soul and for a frightening moment, maybe he did. 

* * *

**xi**

She met him again on her way back home from the feast. Of course, she did.

The Gods had proven to be unreliable lately, fickle and arbitrary to boot, so Ophelia wasn’t really surprised when she saw the dark, tormented clouds rolled in overhead _just_ as she had refused to take the litter home. In hindsight, she should have known that life is nothing but a shitty, pathetic play written, choreographed, produced and directed by the ever incompetent individuals: the Gods themselves.

She found him in the Pantheon, where the minutes had already grown late and the rain didn't show any signs of stopping. He hadn't noticed her yet and Ophelia opted if he didn't. 

But then lightning flashed in the inky sky, only for a few seconds but enough to drape his glistening profile in a brilliant shock of white and amber from the torchlight and her mind simply _failed_ to function at the moment. Antony looked almost phantasmagorical, Jupiter-esque. The lightning retreated behind the clouds, but the image stayed with her.

Time dipped slowly when their eyes eventually met (because by the time Ophelia realized she should have gone somewhere else, it had been too late), the rain an insistent soundtrack around them. It was an odd juxtaposition how she, wrapped in petals, her armor and he, in his literal armor. 

But then again, armors cracked easily under the right amount of pressure.

"I haven't told you that you look like a walking bouquet tonight," Antony said conversationally as he approached her, appraising her once again as he'd done back at the feast.

Ophelia tried her damnedest not to smile too much under his stare.

"Thank you. You're the fifth person commenting about it tonight," she replied dryly instead, figuring it was easier talking to him when she was all barbed and sarcastic. 

A mean chuckle escaped him. "Why this rose never seems to be running out of thorns, isn't she?"

Her face did soften a little. "Forgive me. It's been a long day and _this_ rose is tired."

"We could make a run for it."

Ophelia swiveled her head to his direction. "What?"

"The rain. We could make a run for it," he rephrased, nonchalant, as if suggesting to pick grapes over apples and turn to face her once more. "It's a short walk from here to your scholae, anyway."

"In this weather?" Ophelia gestured to the glory of the endless downpour and lightning blitz before them. "You're insane."

His eyes shifted slightly, one corner of his mouth moving up. 

"Thank you. You're probably the twentieth person to tell me that over the past three years. I'm touched," he parroted her words, mouth crooked. "Come on, it's not like you'll melt from it, princess."

The next thing she knew, he grabbed her hand. Her delicate one wrapped around his larger, rougher hand and made a run as fast as their feet could take them in the rain. The streets were practically deserted, so there were only them. Again. And Ophelia was laughing, free-spirited, loud only because of how she'd missed the feeling of the rain against her skin and the spontaneity of it all.

They headed to a building right across the scholae and stopped under the awning. She was out of breath, helplessly bedraggled from head to toe; her flower crown had fallen somewhere along the way, her dress was sticking to her skin, showcasing her pert nipples and her supple curves. She seemed to be daring him to _look,_ though. To let him know what he’d been missing on while he was fooling around with Xanthe and _oh_ , Antony was staring, alright.

So, here she was again, somehow back in his orbit; trapped and tangled. Every time they met, his pull became more and more powerful and now it simply exhausted her to the point of uncaring.

That's why when Antony leaned forward and kissed her, she, the royal fool, let him.

She'd kissed him before and tonight felt no different. Antony still tasted like spiced wine and molten sin and this time, the rain, which was equally as intoxicating. He still kissed her quite insane, all tongue and teeth and dominating and _fuck_ , who needs alcohol when his kisses were equally as intoxicating?

Antony pushed her back against the wall, his hips knocked into hers. Her heart skipped, moved her hips. He hissed hard against her ear, slotted his thigh between her legs instead and dragged his lips down her jaw, her neck; his calloused fingertips followed. 

Then his hand closed around the pendant.

"You're playing a dangerous game, princess," Antony whispered into her skin, low and cold. His mouth was nipping and sucking her throat, making it so hard for her to focus.

“I… it--” she tried to formulate a coherent response, but came up with a gasp instead. "What?"

" _Cubitum eamus?_ " 

Her eyes flew open, her breath caught in her throat. He backed away, though their lips were still alarmingly close, eyes locked still. The corner of his mouth twitched but it wasn't quite like a smile.

"I know it was _you_. You're the only person in Rome who's crazy enough to send me that," he rumbled, fingers curling tighter around the pendant. In the distance, another thunder roared, but Antony was the thunder in her skin. 

"And you know my answer to it. I'd fuck you long and hard if you asked me to. I'd even fuck you against this wall right now until you come all over my cock; until the whole neighborhood could hear you _scream_ my name. But if you think I'd do it while you're wearing _his_ necklace..." He continued, voice acidic yet husky and caught her bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You've never been more gravely mistaken."

Finally, Antony pulled back completely, stepping into the rain. His façade settled back to that usual closed-off, straight-faced expression as if he hadn't been nearly this close from fucking her head out minutes ago, while she, still with her mouth opened and eyes wild, could only stare dumbfoundedly. 

"Pick your opponent wisely, Ophelia."

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

She took herself on her hand that same night. Her fingers weren't enough.

His name was both poetry and the apocalypse on her lips, intermingling with her shaky breaths as they filled across her chamber. She was insatiable. Ophelia had tasted the poison and instead of killing her, it melted like stars in her tongue. Now, the constant cravings were driving her mad. 

After all, who was Ophelia of Catauni if not constantly drawn to a certain kind of danger?

_Pick your opponent wisely, Ophelia._

Damn him. Truly. Damn him to oblivion. She had no qualms Antony had done that just to even the field and leave the chasing to her, to make her _submit_. He had been a soldier before he was a politician, anyway, winning was definitely at the forefront of his mind.

But Ophelia had been a huntress, just like his Goddess, before she was a courtesan, so if he thought she'd play the desperate lady with him and do his bidding, well...

He'd never been more gravely mistaken.


	2. Chapter 2

**xii**

A  _ popina _ in Aventine Hill- warm mosaic tiles, small with seating for just thirty guests, yet a mighty spot with their renowned fish sauce and Antony was watching her from across the room, his mouth over the rim of his cup. 

She was on her first break of the night and a senator was talking to her. He was a brilliant storyteller actually, if he hadn't been a politician, he should have pursued literature instead, but Ophelia's head just  _ wasn't _ in it. She merely smiled-nodded-chuckled (always in that order) or murmured a rather disinterested " _ and what happened next?" _ to imply an actual disguised interest every time he brought up one anecdote to another just to be polite.

Ophelia laid her hand on her pendant, a seemingly innocent gesture, but a sidelong glance at Antony proved it drew the desired reaction from him; something flickered behind his eyes, dark and furious, and his jaw ticked.

Her mouth kinked up that had nothing to do with the senator's punchline.

"Oh, if you think that's hilarious, my dear, you should hear that time when I almost fell into th-" 

"I need to speak to her."

Antony was suddenly beside her, just in a blink of an eye. He grabbed her by the wrist and steered her into a quiet corner with his drink sloshing onto his hand. She followed in acquiesce, but also because she was surprised and highly amused by this rather super bizarre emotional display from him. 

When he let go of her wrist, her skin felt a few degrees colder. 

"A thank you would suffice," Antony said, the ever poster boy for wine-induced arrogance a few hours before the first hour of the night, and resumed drinking his vice.

"For what?"

"For saving at least an hour of your time. The more you nod and smile and indulge him, the more he'll blabber on about his trip to  _ Sardini _ -"

" _ Sicilia _ ," she rectified, just to spite him. "Yes, yes, I know what I'm doing. I don't know about you, but I find his stories quite funny."

He flashed her a quick smirk, elevating Ophelia's heart rate. "Ah, yes, of course. I sometimes forget you possess the humor of an old lady."

"Bastard." Ophelia playfully shoved him on the arm and he laughed heartily and why was it talking to him never felt like the usual mindless, boring, how-do-you-do chit chat like with others?

"My throat is  _ parched _ ," she suddenly chimed to diffuse the tension.

"Get yourself a drink, then."

"We're too far away in the corner."

"Are you trying to make me give you mine?"

" _ May _ -be," she replied, sing-song and grinned at him, all teeth, through the dark sweep of her lashes. "Are you going to?"

Antony handed his cup wordlessly, she accepted it without question. Their fingers brushed. His forefinger lingered on the ridge of her knuckle, fleeting but the meaning was not lost on her. Her thoughts, a running riot, but Ophelia kept her cool even as she lifted the cup for a sip, her mouth pressed over the rim where his had been.

She was still thirsty, but now for an entirely different kind of substance. 

"You really are something else, aren't you?" Antony remarked solemnly, all the while keeping his stare glued to the pendant.

"I am," she countered proudly. "And  _ your _ game is back-firing, Antony."

"As I recall, it was  _ you _ who sent me that letter in the first place." Antony inched closer and swept the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, brushing away a drop and lingered there. She tensed. "But I know sooner or later, you'll get rid of that pendant. I'm a man who always gets what he wants, Ophelia. And I  _ will _ get what I want."

Without missing a beat, Ophelia held his wrist in place. She matched his stare, not the least bit a shrinking flower, about to make her golden move.

"Are you sure about that?" She asked, voice dropping an octave before closing his thumb around her wine-stained lips. Not once breaking eye contact.

His gaze darkened. Frustration and poorly concealed lust coalesced across his face like a planetary collision as Ophelia sucked and swirled her tongue over his skin. His other arm circled her waist, his thumb curved in her mouth, pressing into her tongue as if urging her to continue.

Ophelia let go of his thumb with an audible, wet pop and swatted his hands away from her. Relishing the way he scowled.

"Oh, and Antony?" She stopped mid-tracks and turned to his direction. "Don't ever underestimate me."

* * *

**xiii**

Her first thought upon seeing the sight before her was:  _ home _ . The crisp air, the damp earth, hyacinths in the winter, etcetera…

It all came back to her. The yearning, the memories, the pain; everything hit her at once like a thousand jabs to the face as she witnessed the man whom she'd thought was only a distant memory walked into the arena; sword drawn, bringing his shield into position, fire in his eyes and in spades, and if Ophelia's eyes would pop any further, they would have been coming out of her head at any moment.

"Father?" A huffing whisper escaped her lips, on the verge of crying. _ He's alive _ . By Gods, he was alive and he was here in Rome. 

And then as she was forced to watch him fought a man twice his size- a javelin pierced through his shield and he staggered back- and her hand finding Cassius' bicep, digging her nails until they left shaped marks on his skin, that's when a second thought appeared, blazing its way into her mind:

_ I'll get you out of this or die trying. _

* * *

**  
xiv**

So, here's the situation:

They were pitting her father against Syphax for the upcoming fight. The fight was in a few days. And she hadn't come up with a single solid plan to stop this from happening.

Lena had suggested seducing Antony into submission. Easier said than done, considering the game they were currently playing. After the stunt she’d pulled back at the  _ popina, _ Antony must have developed a better understanding of her character: that she wouldn’t back down, that she was a fighter as he was. So if she should saunter over to his villa without Cassius’ pendant at this very moment and admit defeat, he would have sensed something was up. 

But what if he was none the wiser?

Now, Ophelia rose from the settee, confused, all kinds of out of sorts, paced back and forth, ruminating her options, turned around. She had to admit, the idea… intrigued her. Gods know how many nights she’d fantasized of having him under her and now she had an excuse to do so. 

Yes, this wasn’t the way her parents had taught her. If they knew the woman she’d become now, would they still love her? Would her father still respect her as his warrior princess instead of this wine-swilling, silver-tongued charmer Roman woman in this Gaulish skin?

_ Of course, they would.  _

They’d shaped her to be a warrior, to fight for her way. She might haven’t wielded a sword for years, but that didn’t mean she  _ didn’t _ fight, it didn’t mean she completely effaced the warrior roots within her. The battlefield was different now, the enemies were twice as clever, she had to come up with a new strategy. She couldn't always romanticise the old ways just because she didn't belong here in the first place, but at the same time, she couldn't forget her true nature.

And it just dawned on her then, as she retrieved her father’s dagger from its hiding place, wielding it, testing its weight and gave a few practiced swings, that she was neither Ophelia, the most famous courtesan in Rome with vengeance pulsing through her veins or Ophelia, the warrior princess of Catauni, set to leave a crater on this earth.

She was both.

* * *

**  
xv**

"It was you, wasn't it?”

Ophelia looked over her shoulder, half-turned, mid-brushing her tangled locks.

Antony walked inside her chamber, unescorted and closed the door behind him. She placed the comb on the table, took a steadying breath and turned around, her face a perfect blank canvas that gave nothing away. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do,” he said, voice as sharp as a talon and stepped closer. "I think you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Her eyes narrowed. "Actually, I don't. In case you forget, Antony, I'm a courtesan, not a psychic." 

"This is hardly the time to jest," he snapped.

"Well, I don't see either of us laughing," she bit back, rising to meet his glare. "Just out with it, then. What is it? I haven’t got all morning.” 

“Two gladiators were found missing from their cells and two of the guards were found with their throats slit open.” And her blood ran cold. She didn’t think Antony himself, of all people, would decide to investigate the matter. “A gladiator by the name of Victus, who happens to be the former chief of a Gaulish tribe and your  _ former  _ bodyguard. Now, don’t tell me this is all just one, big divine intervention.”

“I don’t know about your Gods, but it does sound mine heard my prayers after all.”

Antony slammed his fist on the table. “Don’t give me that fucking crap, Ophelia! I know it was you. You may fool the entire Rome, but you can’t fool me.” Oh, he’s pissed. He was pissed, alright. And for the first time, Ophelia did truly fear him. “You lied to me,” he murmured, as if to himself, hurt. The sight chipped away her heart. "Why?"

"You know why."  _ Because lying to each other is the only language we're both fluent at. _

He closed his eyes. Frustration commingling with something akin to disappointment. When he dragged his eyes back to her, his features hardened.

“Who is he? Who is this old man Victus to you?" his voice was cold, cutting through her like an icicle that she shivered.

"Why do you care?"

"Just answer me! Is he your lover?”

Ophelia choked out manic laughter. “Regardless of what you’ve heard, incest is something highly frowned upon in my family.”

Antony’s eyes widened, as if he’d just understood the gravity of the situation for the first time. Then he stepped back, sinking onto the settee, his chest expanded as he breathed deep, staring into the spot on her desk as if letting the information sink in.

“He’s your father.” It was a statement, all vestiges of anger were gone, shoulders sagged in… relief? "You could have told me."

"Would  _ you _ have told you if you were in my shoes?" Ophelia countered. 

Antony dragged a deep breath. "No." At least he admitted it, she gave him that much. “How long has it been since you saw him?”

She gave him a long look, suddenly growing leery. “Eight years.”

“You must have missed him.”

“Yes,” was all she could manage. Shifting nervously from one foot to the other, her palms were damp with sweat when she tucked a hair behind her ear. This was beyond their usual dance and her family, even to this day, still remained a sensitive subject for her to talk about-- let alone discussing with a man like Antony. 

Noticing her terse response, he decided to drop the subject. 

"Still, you shouldn't have gone behind my back.” Antony stood up and surveyed the room, as if he was really seeing her chamber for the first time. “I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

Ophelia crossed her arms.  _ Oh, here we go again. _

"But I did. And what are you going to do about it? Punish me?” She blurted, not exactly sure why she said it. Not exactly sure if she meant it. She wasn’t even drunk, for fuck’s sake, yet it seemed whenever he was around her, all bets were off. 

He took a step toward her, the air in the room hung heavy and thick. Like stepping into a room full of fire and he was the smoke that took away the remaining oxygen in her lungs. Antony gazed at her dead-on with stormy eyes, mouth twitching deviously.

Attractions were fatal for the likes of them, yes, but damn him, she couldn't help herself every time, something always came over her. At this point, resisting him had become a different kind of impossibility. 

"Are you asking?" He husked, voice low with a hint of something wicked and suggestive. His hips were dangerously close to her, his fingertips, electric, red-hot and fizzing, skittered along her arm, igniting every nerve ending.

She remained still, her chest rising and falling too fast. "If I did, do I even deserve being punished for doing something right?" 

"Maybe not." Antony tipped his head to the pendant around her neck. "But for still keeping that damned pendant,  _ absolutely _ ."

She held his heated gaze for a long moment before making a decision. "Show me."

In a flash, Antony whirled her around and pushed her down so she was bent over her desk, kicked her feet apart. She bit back a gasp. Her heart jackhammering in her chest as his hand ran up her spine, stopping in between her shoulder blades; the other bunched up her skirts to her hips, finally fully exposing her backside to him.

She heard Antony let out a low growl, the hand on her shoulder skimmed down the cheek, kneading the flesh there. 

"What do you want?" His voice was thick, like he was holding himself back or had a mouthful of wine. "Tell me."

"Spank me."

"Say please."

"Please." She forced the word out, although her pride felt like it was being dragged through the dirt, then stomped on it for good measure. 

Antony switched his weight and stood on her side, his mouth ghosting over the shell of her ear as he whispered: "Please what?" 

Ophelia was this close from kicking his shin. "Please Antony, spank m-"

Without warning, Antony struck his hand on her ass, the sound echoing through the chamber and her hips jolted forward into the desk, gasping.

"Oh, Gods." Ophelia shuddered into her folded arms, eyes shut, teeth biting down her knuckle. Pleasure overcame pain and she found herself at the edge of  _ begging _ for more. Embarrassment welled up inside her, tinged with an ungovernable desire that made her head spin.

He struck again on the same cheek, this time harder and more forceful. All strength and domination. She made a low, falling noise. Her skin tingled from the blow, aching for some sort of relief before another smack came. And again and again until she was reduced to a moaning mess on the table, her cunt clenching, wet and empty. 

Antony stopped. His hand stroking the swollen cheeks, almost affectionate, then stopping between her legs where he brushed two fingers over her sex.

And completely withdrew himself from her. Ophelia turned to see him, mouth hung open.

"Didn't you say you haven't got all morning?" He had to be joking. "I suppose I should leave you to get ready for your appointment." He had to be  _ fucking _ joking.

He wasn't, unfortunately, as Antony was already heading towards the door before she was all and bolted to him, skirts still dangling around her hips and closed the door in front of his face. Antony pivoted around to face her just as Ophelia shoved him against the door. A feral look in her eyes met his cocky one.

She cupped his cock and his face morphed into something wicked.

"This is far from over," she declared, waspish and aroused and frustrated.

"No, it isn't," he retaliated, leaning in. "This is just the beginning."

* * *

**  
xiv**

It was beginning to drive her crazy, that was. The game- or whatever the heck they had instigated in the first place- of chasing each other’s tails until one snapped and  _ submitted _ . It hurled her into strange places, drifting somewhere between fantasy and a different kind of Rome. Memories of where his hands and mouth had been forever etched in her mind, haunting her walking days and they were  _ not  _ enough.

She was supposed to be working on her poetry for her upcoming performance, but was acutely distracted that she'd been merely spending the past hour watching the sun slowly sinking behind the horizon. Next to her, Sabina was reading, humming to a song about nocturnes and lovers exchanging secret letters in the pale moonlight. 

Suddenly, she turned to Ophelia.

“How's the poetry coming up?” Sabina asked in a curious fashion, leaning over to get a closer look at her parchment. " _ Your lips, an apocalypse. And I'm on my way to my undoing... _ " she quirked up an eyebrow, the corner of her lip pulled up almost immediately. "Ophelia, are you writing this for Antony?"

In return, Ophelia, fingers stained with ink and the two-day red dye Lena had imported from the Eastern part of the world, rolled her parchment and threw her head back and laughed. 

"Never." And she proclaimed, you know, like a liar.

* * *

**  
xv**

"What's your favourite color?"

"What?"

He'd stopped her, a hand gripping her arm, outside a  _ thermopolium _ patronized by hungry plebeians and travelers, their sweat-matted hair from the melting heat and the smell of lentils, meat and cheese from the earthenware jars wafted through the bustling air. Ophelia had been mid-running down the street- she had to be somewhere, she can't really remember it now- when she saw Antony zooming in from the opposite direction. 

She hadn't expected him to actually stop her and strike up a conversation in the  _ middle _ of the fucking street, but then again, expecting Antony to behave was like wishing for the ocean to stop roaring.

"Sorry, what?" She repeated, all in a hurry. 

"What's your favourite color?" 

Ophelia furrowed her brows. She had never thought much about it. Heck, she hadn't thought about something as trivial as her favourite color when she'd arrived in Rome, but then she thought about roses and their thorns, the garnets on her mother's  _ usekh _ , mashing strawberries with her bare hands with her brother on one summer morning and Tribune Rufus' blood pooling at her feet.

"Red," she blurted out. "Why?"

"Nothing. Just curious,” he said. “Other than red, perhaps?”

She gave him an odd look. “What’s this? The Senate’s doing a survey for an alternate color for their toga collection?

“No. Nothing that superficial, fortunately,” Antony quipped back, chuckling and tucked his fingers under her chin. “But I’ll let you know if they do.”

Ophelia shook her head, mouth twitched into an almost goofy smile. Wondering how on earth Caesar could leave Rome in the hands of this strange man and rather accepted the fact that Marc Antony was indeed an incurably enigmatic creature she'd ever laid eyes on in her life.

"I'll see you later?"

"I won’t doubt it. You said it yourself, you always know where to find me." Ophelia responded and kissed his palm, pretended she hadn’t just said that. “Now, if you’re done I have to go.”

“Oh, Ophelia?”

The courtesan stopped mid-tracks and rotated her head in his direction. “Hmm?”

His mouth cracked into a wide smile. “You look absolutely beautiful today.” 

Antony had spewed out compliments such as these before, but there was something about it that hit different this time. Even though the crowd drowned out his voice, she could tell he was being entirely sincere this time, no charming-my-way-into-your-skirt agenda or anything and Ophelia didn’t really know how to properly react to that.

After he was gone- she’d made sure he was really gone- as if against her will, that was when Ophelia really allowed herself to smile. 

* * *

**  
xvi**

She was famished. Like  _ I'd-eat-a-roast-venison-in-a-heartbeat _ famished and probably down another bowl of soup or two, but instead, Ophelia was nursing a warm  _ posca _ as her patron, a middle-aged senator who only possessed like only one facial expression, had been spending almost an hour in the restroom. 

Antony was sitting on the couch not far from where she stood, sitting alone with ankle-on-knee, cataloguing her movement, his mouth twisted with repressed laughter as their eyes met. So, as promised and as probably how their fates had been dictated by the stars, he did manage to find her again.

She approached him, her mouth dipped into a scowl and one arm akimbo.

“Are you laughing at me?” Ophelia asked in that direct, offbeat manner of approach whenever she was bored or pissed or drunk or the combination of the three and Antony laughed, indecent and unfettered.

“Never." She knew he was lying, but Ophelia was too hungry to antagonize him for that. "I see your patron is nowhere to be found.”

"I see your penchant to stick your nose where it doesn't belong still hasn’t left you,” she parried and plopped down next to him, their knees touching and Ophelia kind of intentionally left it like that. “Or is that a Roman thing?”

“Perhaps. But then again, curiosity _ is  _ the wick in the candle of learning.”

Ophelia threw her head back and laughed. “Gods, that was _ abysmally _ horrible. Did you come up with that yourself or did you steal that quote from a starving, hard-working plebeian who doesn't have the wealth to back up his literary aspirations?"

"Yes," he answered ambiguously, a mischievous gleam in his eyes that grew tenfold when Ophelia snorted a low “ _ bastard” _ and rolled her eyes. “You call me a bastard yet still you seek my company, sitting right next to me, letting our knees touch,” he continued, voice pitched low and meant only for her. “Are you trying to tell me something, sweetheart?”

“Oh, Antony, you _ do _ talk too much, don’t you?” 

“Why now, that’s ironic coming from someone like you.”

“Yes, but while you’re all spewing nonsense and lies, I don’t.”

“But the truth is boring, Ophelia.” Antony leaned towards her. “Whoever wants to hear that one has grown a few strands of grays on their hair? Or that they have a brain the size of an olive? Besides, the truth can be a double-edged sword at most times. We think that honesty levels to simply sharing  _ truth, _ as though the intention of fulfilling that virtue alone is a worthy reason. It’s not. It’s foolish. Good intentions can amount to nothing or a far much worse outcome. It’s not worth it.”

_ Has someone hurt you before?  _ The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them back in as she just sat there, lost in the labyrinth of her mind. Ophelia hated herself for saying this, but Antony was right. How many times had she looked to the truth as some sort of route to enlightenment where it gloriously backfired on her or how it hurt her more than a lie or two? Rome, if anything, was the last place on earth that held truth any value.

“You're afraid of the truth, then?” she challenged, low and teasing, passing it to him as bait. He took it. 

He leaned back against the seat. Watching her as if maybe she was the most frustrating, confusing human being in gods’ green earth. “I didn’t say that.”

With a surprising finesse, after she’d placed her cup on a nearby table, Ophelia swung her leg around his body, her leg displayed through her thigh-high slit dress and straddled him on the couch. She reveled in the way he blinked in surprise at her, mouth parted slightly; one hand finding her waist, the other rested atop her thigh. 

“How about this:  **I want you** .” the Courtesan caught the quick, telling jerk of Antony’s head. “And that’s the holiest truth that you'll ever get from me. So, no more beating around the bush, no more dancing around each other- take this pendant off of my neck and  _ fuck _ me.” She snatched his hand that was on her waist and brought it to her neck. “Take it off.”

Full disclosure, Ophelia hadn't exactly planned on throwing herself at him like this. To think of all the perfectly, meticulous plans she had formed over too many fig cakes and drinks on how to turn the tide against him, and they all went down the drain just because he really knew how to push her buttons.

Like now, where darkness suddenly flashed over his face and his hand curled around her throat instead. He barely applied pressure, but it was the feel of the sensation, the sudden turn of events, how, like her, Antony possessed that talon-like, unforecasted danger that could easily match hers in this game they were playing and he wanted her to remember it. 

"If you want me that badly, why don't _ you _ take it off?” Antony asked, a dangerous undercurrent to his voice and she could feel him now, growing hard between her legs, and it was like her breath was stuck in her chest, caged. 

Before Ophelia had the chance to reply to him- she’d seized the opportunity when the conversation stalled to think of the perfect comeback line- when a messenger trotted inside the place and made his way to them. 

Ophelia, with embarrassment and frustration coloring her cheeks, untangled herself from him and rose to leave. Bringing her cup with her.

She walked away, as if sleepwalking and her mind was still too foggy to function that she’d nearly missed the confused gasp Antony emitted. Ophelia’s tracks immediately ceased, turned back to face him only to find his face had grown ashen and how he didn’t bother to reorient his expression back to that careful, neutral mask he liked to wear. 

“Antony?” she asked, equal parts concerned and nervous. “What is wrong?”

It took some time for him to answer, and when he did, Ophelia felt every color drained from her face. 

"It's Caesar,” he said, the words bitter and quiet. “He's returning to Rome with the Egyptian queen.”


End file.
